Authors: Judi Fennell
Stavros looked anything but happy as he led them through the administration building toward his office, which, combined with the looks of the city, had Kal on edge. If they hadn’t dropped into the middle of one of the gnomes’ melees, he would have addressed the issue then, but he’d been more concerned with keeping Samantha out of harm’s way than with the state of the union here.
But all was definitely not right in the state of Izaaz, a fact that had been brought home when he’d seen Bart. The wyvern was always trouble, and Kal would have whisked Samantha out of there, except that she’d decided to stay. Unless one of the dragons aimed deadly fire at her—or she made a wish to the contrary—they were staying put.
“I could go for some of Aleka’s
baklava
, Stavros.” Dirham hopped beside the satyr. “Or what about the
tsoureki
?”
“No, my little friend. No more
tsoureki
, and we’re all out of
baklava
. Aleka’s is closed.”
“What?” Kal asked the question at the same time that Dirham squeaked it.
Stavros held up a hand. “And Martina’s, too.”
“Why?” Kal opened the door—the upper portion to Stavros’s lower one. “What happened? Martina has made the best chicken Florentine ever since da Vinci designed her ovens.”
“She said she was tired of cooking.” Stavros scratched his eyebrow. “Imagine. A cook who doesn’t like to cook. This place, it’s not the same.”
“So where can we get a bite to eat?” asked Dirham, landing on a chair. Which broke, but the fox picked himself up, his perpetual smile firmly in place. “Palm Street looks all closed up. Is it a holiday, or is everyone on vacation?”
“Something like that, though Seamus and the boys keep McKeever’s open. But I wouldn’t recommend trying to get something to eat there. It’s become their hangout, and the barkeep left a long time ago.”
Kal didn’t like the sound of this. He didn’t like the looks of everything, either. Granted, he hadn’t been here for a while, but the last time he’d been in Izaaz, the city had rivaled the Djinn capital of Al-Jannah for beauty. It had been full of color and life, the complete opposite of this dried-up husk of a town.
Plants and flowers had grown like wildfire, and blankets of poppy fields had bordered lush lawns. The palms had been full and green, their coconuts the color of gemstones. The smell of hyacinth and jasmine had sweetened the air, and the buildings had been painted in pastel colors so that when he’d stood at either end of the street, he’d seen those rainbows Dirham was so fond of. Even the sand had been a, well, sandy color, not bleached white, and the stained glass, cut gemstones, and mosaic tiles that had decorated everything had made the city sparkle. It was why he’d thought to bring Samantha here.
Something drastic had to have happened to leach the color from everything. And when he stepped into Stavros’s office, he realized that more than just the color had been leached out: motivation, purpose.
Hygiene
.
Clutter was everywhere, and not the normal workday paper filings and messages tacked all over the place. Boxes of takeout—from Martina’s—were stacked in a corner. A rotary fan with a blade missing
thwumped
on top of a filing cabinet that was missing a drawer, its cord frayed at the outlet. Grime covered the window, making it seem to be dusk instead of almost noon, and the coffee in the mug on the desk resembled the La Brea tar pits. Stavros had been working behind that desk for at least as long as Kal had been alive so it very possibly could be.
About the only thing that was in good condition was the frame around Colette’s picture. Stavros had adored his wife.
Kal held a swinging electric cord out of Samantha’s way, the sparks zapping between the wires at the frayed end making it as dangerous as dragon fire. “What happened here, Stavros?”
Dirham bolted toward the stack of boxes, his pointed little nose twitching, while Stavros leaped onto his chair. A wheel cracked off, and the chair listed sideways as it spun to the right. Stavros stood up and dragged it the chair across the chipped, mosaic-tiled floor until it banged against the desk. The picture of his late wife fell over.
“Nothing’s happened here. That’s the problem.” The satyr stood the photograph up. “Ever since Faruq got himself arrested, no one cares. Now it’s just me and Tarek, and you know how he likes the ladies. Time was I liked them, too. Then, Colette, ahh.” He stroked a finger along the frame. “They don’t know what to do with themselves.”
They…
or Stavros? Kal had a feeling he knew what the true answer was. You couldn’t put a bunch of magical beings, each with different powers, together and not expect pissing matches. It took a strong leader to keep everyone in line. Faruq had used fear as his motivator, but Stavros? The state of his office and the rest of the town spoke to his lack of success.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Stavros,” Samantha said, brushing between Kal and a large steamer trunk. The tarnished lock snagged her pants. “How long were you and your wife together?”
Kal couldn’t read the lettering on the trunk’s faceplate, which was probably a good thing. Izaaz housed its share of important artifacts, and to see the place disorganized like this, well, he just hoped none of those artifacts got into the wrong hands.
“Colette and I were together for three and a half millennia come next Tuesday,” Stavros answered.
Kal gripped Samantha’s elbow when she stumbled, as he’d known she would. She was handling this situation a lot better than he’d expected, but realizing someone had been married for more than thirty-five hundred years would test any mortal’s mettle. “Sam? Are you okay?”
She blinked, her green eyes wide. “I really wish I hadn’t asked that question.”
“As you wish, Sam.” Kal waved his hand and hoped Dirham was keeping tabs on the number of wishes he was granting. One thousand and one, and he’d be home free.
She stumbled against the trunk again. Her pants caught a second time. But this time when she freed the fabric, enough dust came with it that Kal could read the inscription.
Kharah!
That was Pandora’s box. So
that’s
where it’d gotten to. Contrary to popular belief, the reason Pandora hadn’t let Hope out was because the box had gotten caught up in the whirlwind of the chaos she’d unleashed and had disappeared before she had the chance. Her publicist had concocted the other story to keep the truth from coming to light and causing widespread panic, but Kal had run into Pandi in a bar one night when she’d been too far into her cups of ouzo, and the story had come out.
No wonder Izaaz looked the way it did; its citizens had no Hope—because it was locked up and forgotten in Stavros’s office.
Apparently, the satyr had no idea what he had, and given Stavros’s state of mind right now, Kal wasn’t sure telling him would be the best thing. One crisis at a time.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Stavros,” Samantha said, oblivious to what she was standing next to—
and
what had just happened. She was looking a little confused, though.
“Déjà vu,” Kal whispered. Since she’d wished she hadn’t asked the question, he couldn’t explain to her why she thought she was reliving the scene. Déjà vu was a handy excuse, and one all djinn learned in Wish Fulfillment 101. It worked on people their masters interacted with, too.
“
Efharistó
, Samantha,” Stavros said, as if the re-do hadn’t happened. The citizens of Izaaz weren’t fazed by genie magic, but sadly, neither they nor the town seemed to have seen any magic in a lot longer than the time Faruq had been incarcerated.
Kal put Izaaz’s magical updates on his mental to-do list for when he was in office. He’d be cleaning up a lot of messes, Faruq’s and otherwise.
He started with the mess on the chair in front of Stavros’s desk, magicking the clutter into the drawer he restored on the file cabinet, all under the rationale of providing Samantha with a place to sit. For himself, he brushed a pile of stuff away from the end of the desk and leaned his hip against it.
Something crashed to the floor, eliciting a yelp from Dirham when it clipped his hind end. The fox raced out the door, scattering papers all over the place.
Stavros shook his head when Kal went to straighten them up. “Don’t worry about them, Kal. One more mess won’t change things here.”
Definitely the wrong attitude. No wonder the place had gone down the tubes.
Kal grabbed an old paper bag and an issue of
Izaaz
Weekly
that had landed on the curled toe of his left
khussa
. The newspaper was dated ten months ago. Shaking his head, he grabbed the carburetor that had fallen as well and set them all on the top of the file cabinet.
“It hasn’t been that long since Faruq was arrested, Stavros. How did this place go downhill so quickly?”
The satyr rested his elbows on the desk. A sweet potato chip crunched beneath one. “It was as if we had a blackout. News hit town and that was it. No one has done anything since that day except sit around and play chess or start a fight. And half the time the chess matches end up in fights so I have to referee. I swear, I’m going to turn this badge in for a whistle.”
He lifted the coffee mug and swirled it around. Kal would swear none of the liquid moved even a bit.
“Once upon a time,” Stavros continued, “my job, as Maille pointed out, was basically ceremonial. But now? I’ve tried to organize everyone. Round them up. Make them care. Hades, the ceiling hasn’t been regulated in months; you can see what the sun’s done. I’m worried that mortals’ satellites are going to find us soon.
“Although, ironically, deregulation actually helped with that because every plant from here to the Weeping Wall has been fried, camouflaging us against the rest of the desert. But no one seems to care that we’re living in less than ideal circumstances and could be discovered at any time.”
“But how do they live? How do they eat? And a weeping wall?” Samantha slid a pile of poker chips aside and set the lantern on Stavros’s desk.
“Izaaz’s magic provides for the citizens,” Kal answered, having done a study of it for the new High Master’s thesis he was working on since Faruq had gotten his mitts on the old one. And this situation proved his point: magic wasn’t the be-all everyone thought. A three-wish limit was a better course of action.
“Pegasus struck the sand with his hoof at what is now the Weeping Wall, creating an unending waterfall that formed the oasis that became Izaaz. Eventually, as the town grew, it became a landing place for displaced beings. As your world loses its wonderment, its belief in the impossible, as it becomes more information-driven, more reality-based, and the population grows and infiltrates so-called mythical beings’ environments, those beings migrate here. Where they can be themselves and not have to hide their powers from mortals. Where they can be who they are and live life as they were meant to.” At least in theory. In practice, though, that obviously wasn’t the case.
“But if they have powers, why can’t they fix everything?” Samantha asked.
“No one has the kind of magic you’re talking about,” said Stavros. “Not like Kal’s. Ours is specialized. Dragons used to fill the skies, keeping the peace and the balance with mortals. Dwarves managed the earth and its minerals, fairies the forests, gnomes the land, Kismet and her flocks of birds the skies. Nature entrusted the balance to all of us.
“But through the advancement of your civilization, our magic lost the awe and respect we’d always had in the outside world. Spells and other magical mishaps that, in centuries past, would have frightened mortals, now no longer do. Dragons were decimated by knights in shining armor, which put the dwarves’ union on strike—and rightfully so since they need dragon fire to fuel their forges.” Stavros set the mug on his desk, and again not a drop sloshed inside. “Then the Industrial Age came along and put the elves and gnomes out of business, so they came to Izaaz.”
Samantha glanced inside the mug and wrinkled her nose.
“Faruq kept everyone in line, but now that he’s gone, there’s no incentive to take care of the place or do anything. Seamus fancies himself the next head of state and has tried bribing everyone into following him with the leprechauns’ gold, but that not only doesn’t go over well with the leprechauns, it also hasn’t tempted anyone
except
leprechauns because gold isn’t the lure to others that it is to them. So that results in
more
fighting. Then the gnomes get involved; they just love to tweak the leprechauns’ beards, and it’s a never-ending cycle.”
Stavros blew out a breath and his shoulders slumped. “And Maille and her cronies don’t care what they torch. They’ve destroyed pretty much everything the gremlins had their fingers into, and you know what happens with disgruntled gremlins. Then there’s poor Kismet who’s so disheartened by the apathy that she’s threatening to go into the Light and take all her knowledge with her. That would be the biggest shame of this whole thing, but I just can’t get anyone motivated to do anything.”
“Izaaz sounds like the island of misfit toys. No one has any purpose.” Samantha moved the cup of primordial ooze to the overflowing trash bin.
Stavros hopped to his hooves, the action spinning the lopsided chair drunkenly. “There’s an island? Why wasn’t I informed? Where are these misfits? What do they do to keep themselves occupied? Can we set up a conference call and brainstorm some ideas? Maybe some kind of exchange program? Do they Skype?”
Kal stopped the spinning chair. “It was just a figure of speech, Stavros. There’s no such island.”
He knew what Samantha was referring to because he’d kept abreast of current culture while confined to his lantern, surfing every television channel there was when cable had come to the Djinn world. Great invention that, and it had actually given the gremlins jobs. They’d thrived with their new careers, sabotaging cable connections left and right. When that worldwide Kournikova computer virus had hit back in 2001, Kal had suspected that the gremlins had moved on to computer hacking because Sneek, the gremlin prime minister, had had a thing for Anna Kournikova, though he’d never admitted to it.